


Serve

by DisplacedKey



Series: Diarmute Week 2020 [6]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey
Summary: Diarmuid shows the Mute just how much he loves him.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Diarmute Week 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673284
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Serve

Diarmuid knew that the Mute had had a long day. After a night of being unable to sleep (he didn’t say anything, but Diarmuid could always tell) he had to repair the barn roof on top of all his other chores, and to top it off it had started raining after lunch. Diarmuid’s partner was tired, cold, wet, and—after working right through lunch—hungry. And that just wouldn’t stand.

Diarmuid had dinner ready when the Mute came through the door, his shoulders slumped. He stripped off his wet clothes, quickly dried himself off, and slipped into a dry sweater and pants. Diarmuid gestured to the table and the Mute began to eat, ravenous as a wolf. “Serves you right to be hungry,” Diarmuid lectured as the large pot of water hanging over the fire began to steam. “You won’t have enough energy to work if you don’t eat, especially if you’re working on less sleep. Besides, it’s just unhealthy.”

The Mute nodded and then cast a questioning glance at the steaming pot. Diarmuid took it off the fire and poured it into a larger wooden tub filled with more water. “This is your bath,” Diarmuid said, “because after the day you’ve had, you deserve something nice.”

The Mute’s eyebrows went up and he shook his head, half-amused.

“Don’t you shake your head at me,” Diarmuid said. “You eat your dinner and then you get in this bath, or I’ll make you.”

The Mute’s lip twitched as if he found the idea of Diarmuid trying to physically force him to do anything amusing. A bubble of laughter crawled up Diarmuid’s throat at the thought, too, but he swallowed it down and put his hands on his hips. Knowing he’d met his match, the Mute nodded, downing the last of his milk and standing up. Diarmuid got a bar of homemade soap and a soft cloth as the Mute stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub. He visibly relaxed once he’d sat in the hot water, his eyes half-lidded. Still, he reached out for the soap and cloth. Diarmuid shook his head.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said, and rolled up his sleeves. The Mute’s cheeks flushed slightly, and fondness tugged at Diarmuid’s heart. After everything they’d been through and everything they’d done, the Mute still grew flustered at the thought of being spoiled a little. Of course he thought nothing of pampering Diarmuid—would do it all day long if he could—but any of that kindness being turned back to him was unthinkable.

_Not while I’m around,_ Diarmuid thought. _Not anymore._

Diarmuid pressed a kiss to the Mute’s temple and wetted the rag in the water. He hummed as he gently scrubbed the Mute’s skin, moving over his broad shoulders, muscular arms, and firm torso. His eyes trailed over the familiar map of scars and imperfections, lingering over the large twist of scar tissue on the Mute’s stomach. The worst and the most recent. He was especially gentle in that area, murmuring a soft prayer of thanks. Once he was done washing the Mute’s body, Diarmuid moved to his hair. He worked his fingers through the Mute’s curls, massaging his scalp, and saw the Mute’s eyelids flutter. If heating up this much water wasn’t such a hassle, Diarmuid would do this every day.

He rinsed the Mute’s body with just as much care, and when the Mute stood up and reached for the towel, Diarmuid shook his head. He rubbed the towel over the Mute’s chest, then leaned in and pressed kisses to every scar. The Mute startled, his eyes widening, and Diarmuid smiled.

“Shh,” he said. “You have worshipped every inch of me. Let me do the same to you.”

And Diarmuid did. Every scar he could find, he kissed, his lips feather-light against the Mute’s skin. He pressed two kisses to the place where the arrow had entered his partner, doing his best to drive out whatever evil still haunted the wound. Only once the Mute was dry and every scar had been kissed did he stand and press their lips together. The Mute’s eyes gleamed with tears, so Diarmuid pressed light kisses there as well.

“I love you,” he said, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “I love you, and you are worthy of that love.”

The Mute pressed their foreheads together and smiled. Something like belief had taken root in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Last one was late so this one is even more late. Missing deadlines is a slippery slope.   
> ====  
> Entry number six for @pilgrimagesource's Diarmute Week. The prompt: Worship.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at https://iwillcarryit.tumblr.com/


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